We watched the radar all weekend, slack jawed and praying for relief for our neighbors to the east as Florence stalled out again and again over our coast. I could hear the rustling of the leaves outside, our whole apartment growing darker as the swirling clouds eclipsed the sun, but the rain never came.

At the tail end of a long work week, I found myself in a screaming match with a four-year-old. Certainly, it was not my finest hour—but if I get painfully honest, it was really just another snapshot in an ever-widening pool of evidence pointing to a truth I have long been avoiding: all is not well with my soul. 

Lord, even as you breathe, all of creation breathes in sync. As you stretch out your hand, creation reaches to meet you. May I live out my days in a perpetual posture of reaching out to meet you. 

Lord, even as you are a refuge for the seeking, make me a refuge for the seeking. Even as Christ is bread and wine to me, make my life bread and wine to those who hunger and thirst.